


She Used To Be Mine

by inber



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Alcohol, Alive Renfri | Shrike (The Witcher), Angst, Bittersweet Ending, F/F, Female-Centric, Fluff and Angst, Lesbian Sex, Loneliness, Nicknames, Oral Sex, Romance, Strong Female Characters
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-27
Updated: 2020-04-27
Packaged: 2021-03-02 02:20:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,663
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23867413
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/inber/pseuds/inber
Summary: As an elf hiding from humans in Blaviken’s forest, you have a lonely but steady life carved out for yourself – until you meet Renfri, Princess of Creyden.
Relationships: Renfri | Shrike (The Witcher) & Other(s), Renfri | Shrike (The Witcher)/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 10
Kudos: 39





	She Used To Be Mine

“I know you are there,” The brunette’s words were insistent, “There’s little need to hide. Come out.”

You knew differently; there was _every_ reason to hide.

You hid your reason beneath a threadbare silk scarf, knotted around your head like fashion, not function. Beneath it, your ears betrayed your heritage – scarred as they were from futile self-surgeries to attempt to carve away the pointed cartilage. How many crowns were you worth to this huntress, you wondered? Enough to buy a loaf of bread? Or perhaps she simply wanted bragging rights over your corpse.

It mattered not. She knew where you were, and you could not outrun her. You were cold and weak and she, dressed in the leathers of a warrior, was lithe and toned with muscle that advertised her agility.

It was always going to come to this.

With a trembling sigh of defeat, you slid from the thicket of trees you’d been sheltering behind, trying to still the willow-branch shiver of your limbs. If you were to die, you wanted to face it with dignity. You wished for your mother’s defiant resilience when she’d been captured, spitting in the faces of the humans who had shackled her. You longed for your father’s bow, for his lethal accuracy with the weapon, to resist your oppressors until the very end, until the edge of fate’s sword sliced through—

No, not now. _Not now_. Not those memories.

You raised your gaze and met your assassin, curling your hands into fists at your sides like frost-shy fern fronds, regretting the long-ago trade of your blunt steel dagger for a pair of bruised apples. She met your eyes steadily, the tempered chocolate of her irises acutely appraising, set in a heart-shaped face that was framed by flirtatious wavy hair cropped into a bob. Standing roughly as tall as you, she had the shy curves of a woman who had never sat in luxury’s lap, never made tender and soft by idling at the expense of servants.

 _Well_ , you thought, _at least my murderer is gorgeous_.

“You’re an elf.” She observed, as one might remark upon the weather. “Have you lived in Blaviken’s forests for long?”

Why was she not withdrawing her sword, you wondered? A feline of a woman, graceful sinew and sleek iron for claws; the dagger at her waist, the hidden glint of another metal at her breast. You were the mouse.

“I am.” You responded, sharply, lifting the line of your chin. Your voice did not crack or waver, and you were proud. As for her second question, you left it unanswered; you would not become her amusement. Steadily, you refused to move as she approached. “Do me a kindness, huntress, and strike true. I have done you no wrong. I wish only for a quick death.”

As she slunk closer, your muscles coiled, a snake-curve clench as you prepared. You’d thought of this moment often. You always imagined you’d whisper something in your native tongue, or attack with tooth and nail, gouging, raging until the very end. But you stood rooted, quiet; you closed your eyes when she was a foot away.

You felt her brush past you, to the bushes between the thicket of trees you’d been using for cover. The leaves rustled as she rummaged through the foliage, and you exhaled a breath you’d been holding captive. What was she doing?

“This is a _sick_ game you’re—” You objected, and she half-turned to regard you.

“I’m not going to kill you, elf.” She informed you, the ghost of a smirk haunting her perfectly pink lips, “I have need for this berry.”

“You’re… not…” The words were heavy obstacles for your tongue to navigate, and you felt weary in the wake of adrenaline that exhausted itself from your bloodstream as your pulse rapidly washed it away. Feeling for the stump of a tree behind you, you sunk down, blinking at the black spots in your vision. You drew breath in quiet pants as she considered the berries carefully, humming. “They… they are poison.”, Was all you could think to say. If she was to spare you, why would you condemn her to a vile death?

“I know.” She agreed, frowning, “I just do not remember if it’s the unripened ones or the _ripe_ ones that carry the most potency.”

“Ripe.” You told her, and cursed yourself for helping. Why would you help a human? “You won’t find any. I’ve picked them to use.”

“Ah.” She sighed, and rose from her squat. Perhaps you should not have divulged so much information. “Well, then. Would you spare a few for me? I could trade cheese and cured sausage, if you like.”

Your stomach clenched angrily at the offer, loud enough that she would certainly be able to hear the howling roll of it, and you hated feeling so vulnerable. The trade was unfair, too; a few measly berries for a decent meal? She was either an idiot, or… she was taking _pity_ upon you. For a long moment, you glared fiercely at her; she stood unaffected, almost amused at the expression upon your face. Eventually, your hunger won out, and you nodded in silence. You motioned for her to follow you.

You were gambling with two things, now; firstly, she was at your back. Secondly, you were leading her to your home – if it could be called that – and that would mean relocating. You hated the thought, because your location was absolutely perfect; a cozy cave that one could only access by squeezing between two enormous boulders, sheltered from harsh weather, ringed by rock and featuring a deep, clear pool of water freshly fed by a trickling stream. You’d even begun to grow carrots with old produce tossed away from town; you were certainly not above foraging through garbage for your needs. Humans took from the land and wasted, drained, consumed; you knew how to coax a seedling into bloom with soil and bone and sweetly spoken words.

Pausing at the boulders, you eyed her again, before sighing. Sucking in your breath, you slipped between the gap.

“Hey!” You heard her, “I can’t… _damn it_ , my breastplate is too thick.”

“Then remove it.” You suggested, rolling your eyes.

You heard her curse, heard the click of metal, and then the scrape of her clothing against the rock as she slid through. She was holding the armour; you half expected her to buckle it back on, but then remembered that you posed very little threat to her. Both of you knew it. She dropped it on the ground, looking around.

“Wow, this is beautiful.” She remarked, genuinely, “I had no idea this was even here.”

“That’s the point.” You gritted, dryly. “And now I shall have to _move._ ” Trudging into your cave, you scanned the make-shift shelves you’d built for the berries.

“Why?” The woman asked, “I’ve no quarrel with you.”

“But you live with those that do.” You pointed out, picking up a jar, and another smaller, empty one. “You sit in the tavern, one too many cups of wine and _oops!_ Out it comes; there’s an abomination in the forest. In _Blaviken’s_ forests – she’s stealing your scraps, or maybe she’s responsible for that _murder_ last month, or _oh!_ Remember that ring that went missing from the baker’s home? The elf. It’s always the elf.”

“Our baker is an idiot.” Her voice was a dance of amusement, “He’d probably bake a ring into a batch of buns and never know about it.”

“Still.” You hissed, pulling the cork free from the bigger jar, “I haven’t survived by being foolish, or taking chances.”

She watched you shake out the berries – half a dozen, because you were fair, and three was not enough to make a good poison to coat her blade. Gently, she spoke again. “You’ve no idea who I am, do you?”

Looking up from your task, you frowned, and swept her body again with a careful stare. She wore a brooch at her chest, gilded and set with jewels; maybe a noble playing at hunter, or perhaps a thief. If she was the latter, she was daft to wear her conquest so boldly. And you had nothing of worth to take. “Should I?” You finally responded.

She laughed, taking a seat on a rock by the pool. From a pouch at her belt, she withdrew a wrapped ration; you could smell the cured meat, and your traitor mouth watered. “Here.” She offered; you thrust the berries out in return, and the exchange was made. You wanted to wait until she was gone, but you told yourself you’d just _nibble_ the cheese. Once the creamy food melted against your tongue, the savagery of hunger took over, and you devoured the meal in frantic bites, barely tasting the meat. You knew she was staring, but you didn’t feel the familiar heat of judgement in her gaze. Guiltily, you tugged at the empty cloth in your hands, before offering it back to her. She took it.

“Thank you.” You managed, feeling the sate already. Maybe she didn’t know how precious the gift she’d given you was, but you did. She smiled; it was a slow, genuine thing, the expression, and she nodded.

“I know what it is to starve.” She confided, “To hide. To be called a cursed, wretched thing. To be hunted.”

You scoffed. “I’m _sure_ you—”

“My name is Renfri.” She cut you off, and that earned your silence with the click of your jaw, teeth clashing together. _That_ was a name you knew. She snorted at your expression, and looked down at the cloth in her grasp.

“Princess of Creyden.” You whispered; her cocoa-cozy gaze shot upwards again, meeting yours. For the first time, she was caught off guard, wide of eye. It passed quickly, like the rush of a cirrus cloud shooed by sky-winds.

“Not ‘Shrike’?” She questioned, sarcasm hitching a ride on the edge of her tone. “You do not know me by my bandit name?”

“I know it,” You challenged, “But it is not your proper title. And I was raised to respect those that show me respect. Whilst our kind might not…” Your teeth pinched together, “ _Get along_ , it is as you have said. You’ve done me no wrong. I’ve no quarrel with you, Princess.”

“Renfri.” She murmured, the briefest flash of pain striking her features like a blacksmith’s hammer on hot metal, “Just Renfri.”

You hummed softly in acceptance, before you straightened your spine. “Renfri. Thank you for the food. I hope whoever meets your poison suffers justly.”

She laughed again, at that – you didn’t know why – but the smile was still on her face when she picked up her armour. “And what should I call you?” She asked. You had an urge to confess your name, but you could not. It clung to the tip of your tongue like a flower thorn.

“Whatever you like.” You loftily decided, “I won’t be here, again.”

“There aren’t enough cups of wine in Blaviken for me to spill the secrets of this location.” She told you, and there was such a grounding gravity to her words that you found yourself stunned, believing. “This is too good a spot for you. If you are discovered, it shan’t be by my instruction. Well met, Mouse.”

You blinked at her, and could only manage, “Mouse?” You hated that you squeaked it out like the critter itself.

“Mousetail. Like the orchid.” She explained, “Because you’re rare and pretty.”

As she shuffled between the boulders to leave, you felt the heat of a blush wash over you. _Pretty?_ You hadn’t been called that in a long time. You hadn’t seen a mirror in a long time. Absently, you touched your face, and stared at the small gap where she’d left.

—————

You thought about moving. You wondered if you could truly trust her. The first night after she left, you stayed awake all evening, flinching at every forest sound as the nocturnal animals came alive, waiting for the heavy crunch of boots against bracken to warn you. But nobody came.

With her gift of food came a renewed burst of energy, and you managed to outsmart three summer hares, each one careless with the rut of their season. You were patient, quiet, snaring them when they hopped into your traps, ending their suffering with a quick crack of their little necks as you thanked them in your native tongue for their sacrifice, and wished them an easy passing into the next world. For weeks you had food, and you began to cure their hides; they’d made a warm lining for a blanket. Autumn would be upon you before you knew it.

The leaves were beginning to turn when you met the Princess again. It would be fairer to say, rather, that she met _you_. She was the one who slipped between the boulders of your little sanctuary at dusk one evening. Stealthy, she was, just as the legends said.

“Mouse?” She asked, her silhouette cut out by the low glow of twilight. You were starting a small fire, and nearly screamed when she spoke, muffling the sound between your fingers as you skittered to face her, fumbling for the sharpened hare-bone you’d fashioned into a shiv. The flames caught the kindling and illuminated her face; she grinned.

“You scared the absolute _life_ out of me!” You hissed, and although you lowered your weapon, you didn’t put it back at your belt. You noticed she was without a sword, although the dagger remained faithfully strapped to her hip. She was dressed in calf’s leather breeches, into which a loose emerald shirt was tucked, swallowing her feminine figure. There was no armour to impede her this time.

“Sorry,” She apologised, “It’s not as if you have a bell I can ring. I thought you’d heard me whispering.”

“I was busy.” You defended, looking at the fire. “Why are you here again?”

She shrugged noncommittally. “I like to walk the forest in the evenings. I was in the area, and I suppose I was curious.”

“Curious?” You parroted, feeling foolish. Maintaining your distance, but desiring the heat of the fire, you sat.

“I wanted to know if you’d trusted me, or if you’d left.” She admitted, before gesturing at the fireside. “May I?”

Wordlessly, you nodded, and she sat in a carefree slump, spreading her legs boyishly. “It’s getting colder.” She remarked, and again, you nodded. “Winter will be tough.”

“It always is.” You told her, “I make do.”

“I wonder what you would have made of me if we’d met when I was a girl.” She mused, “My first winter in the woods, alone, blood on my hands. Freezing, starving. I nearly lost my toes to the bite of frost. Actually,” She poked at the flames, “One of your kind saved me.”

“What?” You blanched, “They don’t tell stories about that part.”

Renfri smirked. “Why would they? I don’t speak of it. It would only paint me as weak, and your kind…”

“As stupid and naïve, assisting a human.” You finished for her, unable to keep the venom from your voice.

“No,” She corrected, softly, “As _more_ monstrous. For aiding a monster. I would not tarnish the name of your people further.”

She was one surprise after another. Dumbly, you stared at the dance of flames, the licking light that reached upward, twisting in an unpredictable tango. “How is it that you are a monster?” You wondered, “I’ve met monsters, Princess. Human, inhuman. I cannot speak knowledgeably of a moon-curse, but you…” Shaking your head, you added more twigs to the greedy fire. “I do not feel the monster in you.”

“Many would disagree with you.” She mused, bitterly. “Maybe even myself. I am as they made me, though. Ruthless, dangerous, without mercy. I trusted monsters, and I killed monsters. Maybe their blood soaked through my skin and tainted me.”

“Maybe you _survived_.” You offered, flatly. Moving to pick up an old iron pot, you gestured to the lake. “I was going to heat up a root vegetable stew. I know it’s not much in the way of finery…”

“Actually,” She interrupted, and you saw guilt creep into her features, “I brought… well, I have supper. Enough for us both.”

You watched, confused, as she stood and slipped back through the crack in the boulder. And then with some effort – and a lot of colourful language – she pushed a parcel through, tumbling from the passage herself behind it. Wiping her hands on her pants, she picked up the bundle and returned to the fire.

“Just _passing by,_ huh?” You quizzed, narrowing your eyes, and she sighed, caught-out.

“I think of you, sometimes.” She confessed, “…Often. I can’t slip away easily, but today I could manage it. And I’ve more than enough to share.”

As she produced cured meats, cheeses, fresh bread – how long had it been since you’d had bread, you wondered – and two full bladder-skins, you gaped. “I—” You began, “I’ve no way… to _repay_ you for this.”

“Who said I was asking payment?” She shrugged, and handed you one of the skins. She began to make a plate up for both of you with the food, tearing with her fingers. The rest she wrapped carefully. “And anyway, you do. Your company. Your story. That is all I ask.”

There was a deep-seated loneliness woven between her words, and you felt something within you ache for her. So much of her tale was bravado and blood, a trail of devastation and revenge that she left in her wake. Nobody spoke about the _woman_. Oh, she was described as a beauty – no tale of a female would be worth a man’s breath if she wasn’t something to look at, naturally – but they didn’t speak of the secret sorrow locked at the edges of her eyes, or the dusting of scars on her knuckles from fights she may not have picked. They didn’t enthuse about the way her hair fell in front of her face, curling at the end to kiss her cheek. No stories expressed her weariness in the way she sat; the slump of her shoulders, bowed by a weight she never asked to carry.

With a rush of realisation, you admitted to yourself that you wanted her company, too. That you felt the same isolation. You understood her separation from the world; there were few that could.

“It’s not a happy story.” You warned her, uncorking the bladder. Wine. It smelled rich and fruitful, and you delighted at the tang of it on your tongue.

“No good stories are.” She accepted. Your smile was rueful, and, as you began to eat, you pulled the thread of your life apart for her, letting it unspool from the beginning.

—————

The waxing moon was high in the sky by the time you’d exhausted your tale, and your food had gone. Both of the skins were almost empty, and you, you had to admit – you were tipsy. By the way she was giggling over your description of trying to catch an extremely intelligent doe – which had resulted in you falling into a river, the animal unscathed – you knew she was, too. As you’d spoken and gesticulated, she’d crept closer, and without even realising it, so had you. By now, your hands were almost touching, and you felt the heat of her body beside you more than the warming glow of the fire.

“And _that’_ s why spring-time doe are smarter than any other forest creature. Wolves, bears be damned. The doe have to contend with the rut of the stag, and Gods, I bet they are sick of the stupid creatures.” You took another sip of the potent wine.

“At least they only spend a handful of months avoiding the male species in a year,” She observed, “We must do it constantly.”

You began to laugh freely at that, and she joined you. The noise was musical and, you knew, a rarity. “Do you think men would be more attractive if they sought our hands by bashing their heads together, too?” You wondered. She nearly spit out her mouthful.

“No.” She finally gasped, “No, I do not.” Her head turned, and you felt the brush of her chestnut hair on your cheek. Slowly, you tilted your head too. “I care not for men.”

“Nor I.” You whispered, a wash of confession. You could smell her; earth and wine and something wild, untameable, the hint of an exotic spice. Her gaze flitted from yours, to your mouth, and back. A question.

You answered it by leaning forward, pressing your lips to her own, meeting the warmth of that petal-pink rosebud with hunger. She, as touch-starved as you, matched your fervour; for a moment it was a clash of teeth, a battle of tongues as you settled into a rhythm, eager. You sucked the bounce of her lower lip, threaded your fingers into the wavy strands of her hair. She worshipped your cupid’s bow, jealously drank down a whimper that bubbled up the column of your throat. Her mouth remained upon your own as she pushed you down onto the ground before the fire.

When she broke away you both gasped, but her breath came in hot whorls on your skin as she laved the fine line of your jaw, teeth a playful scrape; you felt her fingers fumbling with the buttons on your blouse, sewn back into position on the cloth time and time again with mend. As she pushed the fabric away and exposed your breasts, she sat back a little, nibbling her flushed lip. She looked at you like you were the most beautiful art she’d ever seen painted, the rarest flower unfurling before a botanist’s eager gaze. Your nipples pebbled with the intensity of it, and she moaned lowly.

“Mouse,” She purred, lust dusting her tone, “My orchid. Such a _lovely_ thing you are.”

You wanted to return the sentiment, but her mouth was upon your breasts, and then you had nothing of coherence or poetry to say. She pressed kisses to your flesh, teased each of your nipples with the tip of her tongue, kneaded hands at your hips, and you knew this was it. _She_ was it. This brutal, frightened creature; she was the beginning of your life.

Hastily, you reached for her shirt between you, urging the buttons undone, wanting to see her, too. Her body disclosed a life of hardship, littered with close-call nicks from blades, but so did yours. You didn’t care. She was ethereal in the embers of the small cave, a goddess astride you for you to worship.

So you did.

She made a sound of surprise as you hooked one leg around her hips and rolled her, cradling her head with precious care. You indulged of her lips again, briefly, unable to resist, before you slid your mouth in a line down her chest. Your tongue tasted the salt of her skin, thumbs rolling the pucker of her nipples, and you delighted in the groan that tumbled from her mouth. Kissing down the flat slope of her pelvis, your hands bade her breasts a hesitant farewell for a moment in favour of unlacing her breeches. When you urged the material down, she lifted her hips to help you.

It was your turn to regard her, nude and wanting, and you licked your lips. Her pupils were wide in the low-light of your dwelling, and her skin was flushed like the blossom of wild roses, an alluring bloom that trailed all the way down to her breasts. You spoke your native tongue; a prayer of reverence, a plea for mercy. Because just as she began you, you knew that she could end you.

“What did you say?” She panted, reaching for you. You slunk back up the length of her body, kissing her shortly; she demanded of you, hungry in the short embrace.

“Beautiful.” You told her, “But that is too shallow a word. I’ve no translation, Princess.”

“Renfri.” She corrected, stroking your cheek, “I’ve no crown.”

“You don’t need one.” Your lips brushed her chin, urged her neck exposed; you kissed the hollow of her clavicle. “You are _my_ Princess.”

She whimpered, then, both at your sentiment, and because your fingers were parting her slick folds, exploring the glistening treasure of her beneath a dark thatch of hair. You shifted back down her body, gently teasing the wet entrance of her cunt with a fingertip, delighting in the huffing mewls she made as she tried to rut forward, to get more of your touch. You were benevolent; the flat of your tongue stroked her engorged clit at the same time as you entered her, and she bucked with the sensation, her low moan of satisfaction a reward for your ears.

She was wet, and needy, and you didn’t deny her; you worked with the rock of her hips, first tonguing her pearl in stroking circles, before you sealed your lips in a suckle around it. You added a second finger, thrusting when she did, curling them come-hither until you found a firm press against the rough nerves within her that made her gasp. She was chanting your nickname, trying to find a place for her hands to light; they gripped your hair, clawed the dirt, stretched up behind her as she angled her hips and rode your face. You growled around her clit, quickening the pace of your finger-fuck, and you felt the insistent pulse of her velvety walls around you.

“Oh, Gods!” She moaned, arching, “Mouse, I’m—I’m _going to co_ —oh, _oh!_ ”

Her vocal squeals were almost as delicious as the salty tang of her orgasm. She absolutely unfolded beneath you like a sunflower chasing the morning, bright with the bliss of it; her cunt clung to your steady fingers, begging of them, and you stroked her deeply, never relinquishing your lip-lock on her throbbing clit. She trembled in the wrack of it, sobbing and begging nonsense, but you did not relent; you manipulated her through the plateau of her pleasure and forced a second peak. This time she had no noise for you; her every muscle was drawn, and you played them like harp-strings, writing a bard’s ballad with the rhythm of her body.

It took her a long time to relax from the sensations, but slowly, slowly her body returned to the earth. You withdrew your fingers gently from her fever-fucked folds, kissing the skin of her pelvis, before you lay at her side and pulled her against your naked chest. She was shivering bodily.

“Are you cold, Princess?” You worried; the campfire had burnt out.

“No.” She promised, clinging to you in the aftermath of her climax; you threaded your limbs with her’s in a lover’s tangle, holding her. “It’s never… felt like… _that._ ” Her words were an intoxicated admission, although neither of you were ruled by the rush of wine any longer.

“I’ve never wanted to lay with a human.” You gave up your own confession, and felt her grin.

“And I’ve never tasted an elf.” She whispered, her sluggish hand at your breeches. You stilled it, capturing her fingers.

“Shh, Princess. Sweet thing. I feel how tired you are. I know what you just gave me. I ask for nothing.” Softly, you kissed her forehead. She hummed. “Just stay with me, tonight.”

“Mouse,” She muttered, and you could hear sleep’s footsteps echoing in her voice, “We’ll… be _together_ after this, won’t we?” Her head nuzzled further into your breast. “We’ll find a way?”

“We’ll find a way.” You assured her, reaching behind you for the furs you slept with, draping them over the both of you.

—————

The next morning, you awoke to the sweetness of her kisses, to the music of her laughter, to the brush of her clever fingers on your skin.

The next morning, Geralt of Rivia rode into Blaviken.

**Author's Note:**

> You can follow my tumblr, @inber, for drabble & general stupids!


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